This recipe for Jewish onion rolls produces a moist crumb and a great dinner roll. It's from Charlotte Schneider, who made 800 with a friend for her grandson's bar mitzvah. You might be interested in How I Learned to Cook Jewish Food.
Makes about 4 dozen Jewish Onion Rolls
Prep Time: 30 minutes
Cook Time: 15 minutes
Total Time: 45 minutes
Ingredients:
2 packages active dry yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup 110-degree water
1/2 cup solid vegetable shortening
2 teaspoons salt
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup (1 stick) margarine
1 cup boiling water
3 large beaten eggs
7 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup cold water
1/2 medium union, diced finely
Kosher salt
Poppyseeds
Melted margarine
Preparation:
In a small bowl, combine yeast, sugar and 1/2 cup warm water. Let rest 5 minutes until foamy.
In large mixing bowl or stand mixer, combine shortening, salt, 3/4 cup sugar and 1/2 cup margarine. Pour in boiling water and stir until blended and cooled slightly.
In a separate bowl, mix eggs, yeast mixture and cold water. Add flour alternately with liquid ingredients to first bowl containing the shortening-sugar mixture. Mix well. Dough will be sticky. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate 5 hours or overnight.
Zap onion in microwave for 1 to 1 1/2 minutes or until limp. Drain and cool. Punch down dough and divide into 6 equal parts.
Keeping other pieces of dough, covered, on lightly floured surface, roll 1 piece of dough into a rectangle 18-by-7 inches. Brush with melted margarine and sprinkle on 1/6 of the onions. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon poppyseeds. Roll jellyroll fashion. Cut into slices 1 3/4-inch wide. Place rolls seam side down on parchment-lined baking pan, spacing 2 inches apart, or in greased muffin tins. Cover with greased plastic wrap and let rise until doubled. Repeat with remaining dough.
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Brush rolls with 1 large egg yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon water. Sprinkle on a little salt and poppyseed. Bake 12-15 minutes or until golden. Cool completely. These rolls freeze well.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
a joke from Sue Bilich
On the morning of Rosh Hashanah as the congregation was filing into the Synagogue, Rabbi Liebenberg noticed little Max standing in the foyer of the Synagogue staring up at a large plaque. It was covered with names with small flags mounted on either side of it. The six-year old had been staring at the plaque for some time, so the rabbi walked up, stood beside the little boy, and said quietly, 'Boker Tov, Max.' 'Boker Tov, Rabbi Liebenberg,' he replied, still focused on the plaque. 'Rabbi Liebenberg, what is this?' he said, pointing to the plaque.
The good Rabbi tenderly put his arm around Max's shoulder and said, 'Well son, it's a memorial to all the young men and women who died in the Service.' Soberly, they just stood together, staring at the large plaque. Finally, little Max, in a voice barely audible and trembling with fear asked,
'Which service, Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur?'
The good Rabbi tenderly put his arm around Max's shoulder and said, 'Well son, it's a memorial to all the young men and women who died in the Service.' Soberly, they just stood together, staring at the large plaque. Finally, little Max, in a voice barely audible and trembling with fear asked,
'Which service, Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur?'
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Great Passover recipes from Jessica Fromm
Italian Chocolate Nut Torta -350 degrees/45
minutes
1 1/2 CUP WHOLE ALMONDS
7 OUNCES UNSWEETENED CHOCOLATE
1 1/4 CUP GRANULATED SUGAR
2 TBS. MARGERINE
3 TBS. MATZOH MEAL
7 LARGE EGG WHITES (no yolks)
1. Process alomonds and chocolate squares til finely ground. Add sugar, margerine, matzoh meal and process til combined.
2. Grease 9" springform pan and lightly dust with some matzoh meal( or line with parchment paper)
3. Beat 7 egg whites until stiff.
4. In large bowl, fold into mixture in 3 batches taking care not to over-mix or to beat with a heavy hand
5. Bake ~45 minutes until toothpick comes out clean. Do not overcook
Jessica Fromm
Ungar gefilte fish/frozen loaf
minutes
1 1/2 CUP WHOLE ALMONDS
7 OUNCES UNSWEETENED CHOCOLATE
1 1/4 CUP GRANULATED SUGAR
2 TBS. MARGERINE
3 TBS. MATZOH MEAL
7 LARGE EGG WHITES (no yolks)
1. Process alomonds and chocolate squares til finely ground. Add sugar, margerine, matzoh meal and process til combined.
2. Grease 9" springform pan and lightly dust with some matzoh meal( or line with parchment paper)
3. Beat 7 egg whites until stiff.
4. In large bowl, fold into mixture in 3 batches taking care not to over-mix or to beat with a heavy hand
5. Bake ~45 minutes until toothpick comes out clean. Do not overcook
Jessica Fromm
Ungar gefilte fish/frozen loaf
Monday, March 2, 2009
New Jokes
from Brian Drazin, Esq. (a very funny and great guy!!):
A mother took her 5-year-old son with her to the bank on a busy lunchtime.
They got behind a very fat woman wearing a business suit complete with a
very large and prominent beeper/pager.
As they waited patiently, the little boy said loudly, 'Gee, she's fat!'
The mother bent down and whispered in The little boys ear to be quiet.
A couple of minutes passed by and the little boy spread
His hands as far as they would go and announced;
'I'll bet her butt is this wide!'
The fat woman turns around and glares at the little boy.
The mother gave him a good telling off, and told him to be quiet.
After a brief lull, the large woman reached the front of the line.
Just then, her pager began to emit a
Beep, beep, beep
The little boy yells out, 'Run for your life, she's backing up!!
A mother took her 5-year-old son with her to the bank on a busy lunchtime.
They got behind a very fat woman wearing a business suit complete with a
very large and prominent beeper/pager.
As they waited patiently, the little boy said loudly, 'Gee, she's fat!'
The mother bent down and whispered in The little boys ear to be quiet.
A couple of minutes passed by and the little boy spread
His hands as far as they would go and announced;
'I'll bet her butt is this wide!'
The fat woman turns around and glares at the little boy.
The mother gave him a good telling off, and told him to be quiet.
After a brief lull, the large woman reached the front of the line.
Just then, her pager began to emit a
Beep, beep, beep
The little boy yells out, 'Run for your life, she's backing up!!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Family Stories 1.25.09- Uncle Nussie
My Courtship of Inda
By Uncle Nussie (aka Nathan Posner)
(from his book: NOT BY BREAD ALONE )
“No sooner had I acquired my driving license than Mac assigned me to a
route in Brooklyn. One of the customers along the route was the
Tumbarello Blouse factory in Canarsie. “Tumby” worked exclusively for
Vanity Blouse Co., which was owned by Morris Cedarbaum, my uncle.
The person in charge of the production department and dispensing
work to the factories was a young lady named Inda. Although she had
many additional functions for the firm, the aforementioned duty was the
only one that brought us in contact with each other. I soon made it my
business to personally make deliveries at Vanity every day, leaving my
helper to make other “less important” deliveries and pickups.
Before long, my visits to Vanity began to take up more and more of
my time. And my thoughts, too.
I fell for Inda immediately. Her knowledge of the business impressed
me, as well as her “strictly business” attitude. She was cute, shorter than
I, and slender.
One night, while driving home from the City (Manhattan) with Pop
alongside, I said, “You know that girl Inda at the Vanity?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“She’s the kind of girl I’d like to marry.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“Where do I shine to a girl like her?” I asked.
Pop’s answer changed the direction of my thoughts and my life.
“If you like a girl,” he advised me, go after her.”
From that moment on, I became a different person. I had only one
aim—to woo this girl and make her my wife. I was obsessed with
thoughts of her and could barely survive out of her sight. I became a
fixture at her desk. She couldn’t get rid of me because my Uncle Morris
Cedarbaum owned the place. Hanging around there, I discovered she was
getting calls from another admirer. Brazenly, I sometimes picked up her
ringing phone, and if it was that other guy, announced that Inda was out
and gone for the day.
After a while, during one of Pop’s monthly visits to Inda to ascertain
the amounts of shipments for the prior billing period, she complained to
him of my actions. I think she was just probing for Pop’s attitude toward
the relationship. Pop’s reply to her was that Nat was a good catch and
that she should not discourage me.
I sometimes brought her chocolate, which I discovered she had an
affinity for. That spring, the flowers were in full bloom in Canarsie in
Tumbarello’s yard, and often I collected a bouquet that I brought to Inda
or left upon her desk. Her home was along my route, and as often as I
could, I persuaded her to allow me to drive her home. She often worked
until 7 or 8 p.m. I would wait for her and take her home to the East Side
(downtown), where she lived with her sick mother. On the way there, I
would make sharp right turns, and Inda would obligingly fall onto my
lap. Those moments close to the girl I was beginning to love dearly are
among my fondest memories.”
---------------
By Uncle Nussie (aka Nathan Posner)
(from his book: NOT BY BREAD ALONE )
“No sooner had I acquired my driving license than Mac assigned me to a
route in Brooklyn. One of the customers along the route was the
Tumbarello Blouse factory in Canarsie. “Tumby” worked exclusively for
Vanity Blouse Co., which was owned by Morris Cedarbaum, my uncle.
The person in charge of the production department and dispensing
work to the factories was a young lady named Inda. Although she had
many additional functions for the firm, the aforementioned duty was the
only one that brought us in contact with each other. I soon made it my
business to personally make deliveries at Vanity every day, leaving my
helper to make other “less important” deliveries and pickups.
Before long, my visits to Vanity began to take up more and more of
my time. And my thoughts, too.
I fell for Inda immediately. Her knowledge of the business impressed
me, as well as her “strictly business” attitude. She was cute, shorter than
I, and slender.
One night, while driving home from the City (Manhattan) with Pop
alongside, I said, “You know that girl Inda at the Vanity?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“She’s the kind of girl I’d like to marry.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“Where do I shine to a girl like her?” I asked.
Pop’s answer changed the direction of my thoughts and my life.
“If you like a girl,” he advised me, go after her.”
From that moment on, I became a different person. I had only one
aim—to woo this girl and make her my wife. I was obsessed with
thoughts of her and could barely survive out of her sight. I became a
fixture at her desk. She couldn’t get rid of me because my Uncle Morris
Cedarbaum owned the place. Hanging around there, I discovered she was
getting calls from another admirer. Brazenly, I sometimes picked up her
ringing phone, and if it was that other guy, announced that Inda was out
and gone for the day.
After a while, during one of Pop’s monthly visits to Inda to ascertain
the amounts of shipments for the prior billing period, she complained to
him of my actions. I think she was just probing for Pop’s attitude toward
the relationship. Pop’s reply to her was that Nat was a good catch and
that she should not discourage me.
I sometimes brought her chocolate, which I discovered she had an
affinity for. That spring, the flowers were in full bloom in Canarsie in
Tumbarello’s yard, and often I collected a bouquet that I brought to Inda
or left upon her desk. Her home was along my route, and as often as I
could, I persuaded her to allow me to drive her home. She often worked
until 7 or 8 p.m. I would wait for her and take her home to the East Side
(downtown), where she lived with her sick mother. On the way there, I
would make sharp right turns, and Inda would obligingly fall onto my
lap. Those moments close to the girl I was beginning to love dearly are
among my fondest memories.”
---------------
Family Stories- Mama's Private Place, by Aunt Florence
MAMA’S PRIVATE PLACE
By Florence Stadlen
"Alright, little fish, open your eves."
A light kiss on closed eyelid, a love-sniff where neck meets ear, a nuzzle at the neck.
"Up, up, children. It's time for school and I daren't be late for the Sabbath. So much to do, so much to do: Will I ever be finished in time?"
I sneak a peek and quickly shut my eyes again. Stretching lazily I taunt Mama with my Friday morning languor, trusting her for yet another kiss, another loving sniff. I know it is Friday. Friday is the one morning Mama rushes us out of bed, voice tense, urgent. All other days her whole being expands while we dawdle and delay the moment we finally rise stretching from warm beds. "Soon, soon enough," she tells impatient Papa who always wants us up, up, now, this minute. "Soon there will be no dawdling
for them. Let them sleep another minute now, another five, another ten. Soon enough they will have their own little ones and that will be the end of sleep for them."
My nose, too, tells me it is Friday. Yeast acting on flour. Mama bustles from our bedroom into the kitchen. Now the wooden spoon scrapes the sides of the mixing bowl. Soon Mama's knife tap-taps down the noodleboard. Clickety-click-click-click, the racing knife cuts tracks of finely cut noodles to form lacy patterns down the length of the board.
"Children, children," she calls our names in loving diminutives. Now there is an edge to her voice. "Wash up, wash up, wash the sleepy-winders from your eves."
2.
My little sister and I make our leisurely way into the kitchen. Mama rushes us through breakfast and out the door, heaving a sigh as we reluctantly depart. Now she will get on with it; clean house, bake challah, prepare and cook the Sabbath food, for tomorrow truly will be a day of rest.
By the time we come back from school not only the kitchen but
the whole flat smells of Friday: heavy scent of furniture oil and brass polish combine with friendly odors of freshly baked goods. The house has a special Sabbath look. Windows twinkle in the late afternoon sun. Kitchen sink and kitchen floor are scrubbed, fresh newspaper lining the floor under the sink to catch damp footprints and splashes. The kitchen table is piled high with goods: the challah shining golden brown and seeded: in the breadbowl onion rolls and birdie shapes, braided breads and round coiled loaves. The coffee cake stands half-a-foot high, waiting for the first cut to expose the secrets of its "nests," browned treasure of nuts mixed with cinnamon sugar, raisins light and dark. As we make that first triangular cut and dig around for buried gold, Mama wrings her hands in mock despair at the ravages we commit, all the while rejoicing in our greed.
We smack our lips and, raising our eves, see into the dining room. The white damask tablecloth shimmers on the table. Six brass candlesticks rubbed golden, stand gleaming on the brass tray, six tall white candles waiting to be lit. The gefilte fish platter decorated with cooked carrot slices, is in place beside the candles, two challah loaves resting ceremonially beneath the white satin
3.
breadcloth embroidered in cobalt blue. Horseradish, fresh-rubbed, beet-red as Mama's hand, makes nostrils flare, brings water to the eyes.
Mama rushes through the final chores. She has had her bath. Now she clips her fingernails. I watch, filled with awe as Mama sweeps together and then wraps the shards in a piece of paper, to dispose of with care against the Day of Judgment when her shade must roam the earth to gather together these cuttings of a lifetime.
An hour passes and tension builds. Mama tastes the food for tonight's supper and tomorrow's lunch. She strains the soup, removing chicken from pot to ready it for its second round. Spreading over the half-cooked bird a garlicky tomato sauce, she places it in the oven to brown. Presto! It is Roast Chicken.
Now Mama draws out the tin tray from its weekday resting place between stove and wall. Circular cutouts expose the gas burners. Since the advent of piped-in gas, no longer does Mama need a Shabbos Goy to light the flame. The gas stays lit - one burner only - for the entire Sabbath. Mama turns down the gas to a tiny flame - not too low, not too high, only enough to keep the chill off the food. The Sabbath will be a day of rest but not great comfort. It will be rather, a day of spiritual exhilaration.
From the corner of her eve, Mama glances at the clock. Slowly now she looks around her. Everything done? Anything forgotten? Each and every Friday it is always the same. I feel the tension in her. The urgency - her excitement - transmit themselves to me. It is time to light the candles. Has she made it in time? In time! In time!
4.
In good time. Neither too early nor too late. God forbid too late - to desecrate the Sabbath. Nor too early - to make other Jewish wives late.
Mama's thin brown hair she has pulled back in a tightly wound roll. Her cheeks flush. Her eyes shine. Her crisp, clean apron covers a freshly laundered dress. The lace scarf sits folded on the back of a chair, waiting to cover her head when she prays over the candles. The Sabbath is all but here and Mama, like a bride, stands eager to meet it: purified, joyful, proud...ready.
I stand in the doorway, brown eyes watching. Mama slowly covers her head. She strikes a match and lights the first candle. The remaining candles she lights from the first. "Baruch attah Adonai, Blessed art Thou God," she whispers. The moment for which I wait each Friday is almost here. My throat begins to catch and close as, still whispering, Mama stretches out her hand to make circles round the fresh, sputtering flames. One circle - two - three - four. Slowly she carries her palms towards her face, covering eyes, nose, and mouth. Mama disappears; she is a whisper only. The whisper changes quality. Is it whisper-turned-to-sob? More whispering as Mama buries her head deeper into her hands. Fear clutches me - a terrible loneliness. Mama, where are you? What is it? Where are you? Come back, Mama, come back.
I choke the words - leave them fluttering inside me, unsaid, while Mama stays there in her own private place behind her hands.
She stays there a long, interminable minute. Then, slowly, Mama's
hands leave her face, descending to her sides . She returns.
Her eyes slightly reddened, her lips form a thin, tremulous
smile. "Gut Shabbos, Gut Shabbos." Relief rolls over me in warm
waves.
By Florence Stadlen
"Alright, little fish, open your eves."
A light kiss on closed eyelid, a love-sniff where neck meets ear, a nuzzle at the neck.
"Up, up, children. It's time for school and I daren't be late for the Sabbath. So much to do, so much to do: Will I ever be finished in time?"
I sneak a peek and quickly shut my eyes again. Stretching lazily I taunt Mama with my Friday morning languor, trusting her for yet another kiss, another loving sniff. I know it is Friday. Friday is the one morning Mama rushes us out of bed, voice tense, urgent. All other days her whole being expands while we dawdle and delay the moment we finally rise stretching from warm beds. "Soon, soon enough," she tells impatient Papa who always wants us up, up, now, this minute. "Soon there will be no dawdling
for them. Let them sleep another minute now, another five, another ten. Soon enough they will have their own little ones and that will be the end of sleep for them."
My nose, too, tells me it is Friday. Yeast acting on flour. Mama bustles from our bedroom into the kitchen. Now the wooden spoon scrapes the sides of the mixing bowl. Soon Mama's knife tap-taps down the noodleboard. Clickety-click-click-click, the racing knife cuts tracks of finely cut noodles to form lacy patterns down the length of the board.
"Children, children," she calls our names in loving diminutives. Now there is an edge to her voice. "Wash up, wash up, wash the sleepy-winders from your eves."
2.
My little sister and I make our leisurely way into the kitchen. Mama rushes us through breakfast and out the door, heaving a sigh as we reluctantly depart. Now she will get on with it; clean house, bake challah, prepare and cook the Sabbath food, for tomorrow truly will be a day of rest.
By the time we come back from school not only the kitchen but
the whole flat smells of Friday: heavy scent of furniture oil and brass polish combine with friendly odors of freshly baked goods. The house has a special Sabbath look. Windows twinkle in the late afternoon sun. Kitchen sink and kitchen floor are scrubbed, fresh newspaper lining the floor under the sink to catch damp footprints and splashes. The kitchen table is piled high with goods: the challah shining golden brown and seeded: in the breadbowl onion rolls and birdie shapes, braided breads and round coiled loaves. The coffee cake stands half-a-foot high, waiting for the first cut to expose the secrets of its "nests," browned treasure of nuts mixed with cinnamon sugar, raisins light and dark. As we make that first triangular cut and dig around for buried gold, Mama wrings her hands in mock despair at the ravages we commit, all the while rejoicing in our greed.
We smack our lips and, raising our eves, see into the dining room. The white damask tablecloth shimmers on the table. Six brass candlesticks rubbed golden, stand gleaming on the brass tray, six tall white candles waiting to be lit. The gefilte fish platter decorated with cooked carrot slices, is in place beside the candles, two challah loaves resting ceremonially beneath the white satin
3.
breadcloth embroidered in cobalt blue. Horseradish, fresh-rubbed, beet-red as Mama's hand, makes nostrils flare, brings water to the eyes.
Mama rushes through the final chores. She has had her bath. Now she clips her fingernails. I watch, filled with awe as Mama sweeps together and then wraps the shards in a piece of paper, to dispose of with care against the Day of Judgment when her shade must roam the earth to gather together these cuttings of a lifetime.
An hour passes and tension builds. Mama tastes the food for tonight's supper and tomorrow's lunch. She strains the soup, removing chicken from pot to ready it for its second round. Spreading over the half-cooked bird a garlicky tomato sauce, she places it in the oven to brown. Presto! It is Roast Chicken.
Now Mama draws out the tin tray from its weekday resting place between stove and wall. Circular cutouts expose the gas burners. Since the advent of piped-in gas, no longer does Mama need a Shabbos Goy to light the flame. The gas stays lit - one burner only - for the entire Sabbath. Mama turns down the gas to a tiny flame - not too low, not too high, only enough to keep the chill off the food. The Sabbath will be a day of rest but not great comfort. It will be rather, a day of spiritual exhilaration.
From the corner of her eve, Mama glances at the clock. Slowly now she looks around her. Everything done? Anything forgotten? Each and every Friday it is always the same. I feel the tension in her. The urgency - her excitement - transmit themselves to me. It is time to light the candles. Has she made it in time? In time! In time!
4.
In good time. Neither too early nor too late. God forbid too late - to desecrate the Sabbath. Nor too early - to make other Jewish wives late.
Mama's thin brown hair she has pulled back in a tightly wound roll. Her cheeks flush. Her eyes shine. Her crisp, clean apron covers a freshly laundered dress. The lace scarf sits folded on the back of a chair, waiting to cover her head when she prays over the candles. The Sabbath is all but here and Mama, like a bride, stands eager to meet it: purified, joyful, proud...ready.
I stand in the doorway, brown eyes watching. Mama slowly covers her head. She strikes a match and lights the first candle. The remaining candles she lights from the first. "Baruch attah Adonai, Blessed art Thou God," she whispers. The moment for which I wait each Friday is almost here. My throat begins to catch and close as, still whispering, Mama stretches out her hand to make circles round the fresh, sputtering flames. One circle - two - three - four. Slowly she carries her palms towards her face, covering eyes, nose, and mouth. Mama disappears; she is a whisper only. The whisper changes quality. Is it whisper-turned-to-sob? More whispering as Mama buries her head deeper into her hands. Fear clutches me - a terrible loneliness. Mama, where are you? What is it? Where are you? Come back, Mama, come back.
I choke the words - leave them fluttering inside me, unsaid, while Mama stays there in her own private place behind her hands.
She stays there a long, interminable minute. Then, slowly, Mama's
hands leave her face, descending to her sides . She returns.
Her eyes slightly reddened, her lips form a thin, tremulous
smile. "Gut Shabbos, Gut Shabbos." Relief rolls over me in warm
waves.
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